


Well played, boys

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Fluff and Smut, John's office has a complete skeleton, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Texting, do something before we kill him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:18:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic where everyone has just about had enough of Sherlock's behavior, and both Mycroft and Greg think they know what the problem is.  They enlist John's assistance with this very important matter.  This is set post Season 3, and John has come back to Baker Street after things didn't work out with Mary and the baby.  There is mixed messages, vague text messages, and a bit of fun interspersed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well played, boys

The plaques and certificates on the wall, and John didn't even really notice them anymore. Commendation from the army. Med school diploma. Certification. Purple heart. Photos of his unit - he is still grinning in the front row, and he wonders, even now, what there could possibly have been to grin about. Bloody war.

Desk, unchanged. Name plate. Pens. Post its. Phone. Inbox, too full. Outbox? where was that again?

His stethoscope, around his neck, he pulled it off, set it down, put it on again. Bloody hell. Indecisiveness grated on him. For pity's sake, life and death decisions, no problem. Medical crisis, cooler head prevailing. When the hospital called, critical thinking, he issues orders, given decisively, confidently, to the nurses without a question. This? Yeah, not so much. 

He checked his mobile for the 18th time since the office had shooed out its last patient. The receptionist had poked her head in, "You ok? I'm headed out." He nodded, waved, no words exchanged.

The mobile buzzed, and his heart skittered. Game on, he thought.

**On my way. SH**

*****

A few days earlier, Mycroft had lurked in the grocery, atypical, John realized immediately. Clandestine meeting, then. Waiting. John had nothing to say. Eye contact, intensity, finally Mycroft looked away. "John."

"Need something?"

"You know why I'm here." John's gaze, steady, waited him out. "You've got to do something. He's...." there was a vague hand gesture of non-committal uncertainty.

Lips pursed, he blew out a breath. "Yes. Well."

Mycroft tapped his umbrella, John realized this was not going to be a long conversation. "I have seen him frustrated before. But not this bad."

Nodding, John raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous." Mycroft nodded. "Suggestions?"

Mycroft signed, looking him intently - these crazy Holmes and their piercing eyes - then raised an eyebrow, gestured at John, uttered, "You know what to do. You know him best. And this is uncharted territory for him."

*****

Lestrade had been more direct. "If you don't figure out how to fix him, I'm not sure...I mean, just the other day, the case..." He was talking about the rage, acting out, near temper tantrum. John'd had to squeeze his elbow and drag him a few feet away to re-center him; few words had been required.

Greg watched John watch him. It was something that he had never gotten used to, either John or Sherlock, that they could communicate so much without words. They were even better at it between the two of them, and somehow, Greg had been aware of the connection from almost day 1, with the cabbie. Today, John's steady eye contact made him uncomfortable. Despite the aggravation, the NSY still needed his brilliance, his critical thinking, his mind, his deductions, and they all knew it.

"Look," he continued, "he's a mess. Angry, annoying. Destructive. He's ... gotta find a way around this, get unwound somewhere." Mary had said it, too, to John so many months before, that he needed to take him out and run him. Thoughts unbidden, jaw clench, moving on. A lifetime ago. Subconsciously fingering the unadorned ring finger. Greg's eyes went up, he looked at John pointedly, looked away. It was pretty obvious what Greg was getting at. He put his hand on the doorknob, paused. "He'll need you to navigate this for him. Pretty sure he's never... Anyway." He blew out a breath, nerves getting the best of him. "Good luck, mate."

*****

John had long accepted that the plans for his life, career path, family were so far off what he'd expected that it was no longer even in the same realm. Getting shot, forced army retirement, returning to London injured, rehab and therapy, and other kinds of therapists he never expected, getting his life back in some semblance of order, and then meeting Sherlock. Emptiness to... insanity? Good grief, there was not even enough words to categorize the roller coaster that had been. The cabbie, the spraypaint, pool, the shared adventures, the vest, Moriarty, the fall, the return from the grave... too late, Mary filling a need for John, married, baby on the way by that point. The nightmare of the moment when John realized the gravity of the shot fired at Magnussen. Life as they knew it, in a single moment, gone. ... well, but then it's not that odd, changing on a dime. Changed again, "did you miss me?" echoing across the UK.

Ah Moriarty. Never again would John underestimate Mycroft's power and influence.

And Mary, oh, Mary. The fallout. Baby Amelie, John could barely believe the sweetness. Nearly 8 months old, crawling, grinning, teething. The beauty of fatherhood juxtaposed with the relationship deterioration and realization that his heart was divided, and Mary was suffering. She'd grown quieter, sadder, and asked him to leave. Visitation on weekends and days off, and, like the rest of John's wayward plans, it would work out because that's what happened. They'd talked briefly about formal custody, the pending divorce, the reason. It hurt, deeply, terribly, the emotional pain, the failure. Failure most of all. John owned up to it, knowing perhaps it was doomed from the start. Mary could only be described as resigned. Hurt. Sad. But, out of her goodness, she was completely willing to facilitate bonding between John and Amelie. They shared the same wonderfully thick light brown hair and wide eyes, filled with wonder, and enjoying experiencing each days revelations. He spent some evenings there, weekends as they could make it work overnights wouldn't start until she was weaned. She loved the flat, getting into stuff, pulled up on everything in their Baker Street apartment, and last weekend, on an afternoon visit, chortling and burbling, she managed to pull Sherlock's hair. He had been breath-holding, seriously, someone actually pulled Sherlock's hair!! It was a toss-up as to who was more shocked. It was a memory worth clinging to just for the grin it evoked even now, as he untangled a few pulled out curly hair strands from her fingers and asked her to "please refrain from doing that again in the future."

His new job, new role, new title, all relatively self-less. It was not about him. It was about doing what had to get done, squelching down, mostly successfully, what he might have wanted - no, not completely straight then, he mused - in order to maintain the status quo. Because that was infinitely better than being in the wrong place. And Sherlock's talent, skills, brilliance more or less pre-empted all the rest of it. He smiled to himself, reminding him of the beauty of their friendship. It was so worth it. Wouldn't trade the insanity for anything. Completely involved at empowering the success of another. All about the services provided to society, the NSY, the British government. His life, as he'd chosen it now, was more than flatmate. Helper. Physician, at the only place that would ever be able to tolerate the crazy schedule that changed at the drop of a hat. And role of father - oh wow, he couldn't wait to have Amelie to himself, for the weekend. He saw her regularly, as often as he could, but it was not enough. For the most part, he was extremely fulfilled. Helping people and making a difference wherever he was. It was, he reminded himself, so worth it.

*****

Arriving at work that morning, John knew he'd dragged his feet long enough. Best to do neutral turf, or at least not Baker Street, that would be disastrous if things didn't go extremely smoothly. He'd been planning word choices a while, knew nothing would be resolved immediately, knew Sherlock's reaction would be head tilt, pause, rapid-fire questions, and then he would move them beyond the conversation, allowing for processing time, and hopefully, finally, a satisfying ending. Hmm, exactly how satisfying would remain to be seen.

The text earlier in the day had been short.

**Consult, my office, 530? JW**

**Client? SH**

**Come open minded. JW**

**Not bloody likely. SH**

*******

He arrived in a bluster of scarf, curls, and coat, eyes ablaze, cheeks flushed from the chill and the wind.

John stood, gestured to the chair, as Sherlock glanced around. Expected a client, probably, surprised at not finding one. Long legs, long fingers, intensity that reminded John again of a caged animal, pouncing cat or snake ready to strike, seated expectantly in the seat opposite his desk. John sat down, too, heart pounding loudly in his ears. Deep breath, vagal nerve stimulation, heart rate slows, biofeedback at its simplest.

"So."

Steepled fingers over pursed lips. Just missing the tea and the dressing gown, as there was a skull complete with skeleton standing in the corner. It had been a med school graduation gift from Harry, as a joke. He liked the commonality, really.

*******

Yup, John recalled those lips, behind fingers, just after the case a few weeks back, adrenaline surge, crime solved, details that were finally woven together in Sherlock's gray matter, came out verbally, speeding cars to the final scene, victim bound, nearly frozen, barely responsive. And the detective deferred to John's skills as he assessed physical distress, delegated tasks, summoned help, placed his own coat around and under the bloke, whose eyes fluttered open, voice hoarse, grateful, sobbing as details surfaced. The ambulance left, statements given, Sherlock rather arrogantly belittling those who only could see rather than observe. Lestrade clapped them both, commented that John should bring 2 coats if he was going to give one away. The cab was summoned, would be a few minutes, but Sherlock was manic, excited, verbose. Caged energy. John watched the frustration seething under the surface as he bubbled over the deductions, the danger, the fact that they were almost too late. John blew on his hands, and Sherlock noticed, quickly unbuttoning his Belstaff to wrap them both inside while they waited. The last police car drove out of sight, siren blaring, off to the next emergency.

"Where is your coat anyway?" he asked as John leaned inward, appreciating much of his position, a rarity, his face finally warmer in folds of the blue scarf, fingertips up against Sherlock's dress shirt.

"What you didn't see, or didn't observe?" he teased. "On the victim. Frostbite and all."

He nodded, gloves pulling the jacket around them both. "Quite a thrill, yes, the solving, almost not in time. The perpetrator off the streets." His tirade continued for a few moments, and John's shaking chill seemed to stop. "We did it! I solved the case, and you saved a life!" he said finally, and out of somewhere, a celebratory kiss, probably meant to be a quick and deliberate and pointedly a casual, a social function. But something went awry, lingered long, John's chilled mind screaming silently pull away, this is dangerous, but his heart, the opportunist, took control, head slanted slightly, lips parting just briefly, exhaling in the closeness. And then suddenly there was space between their jaws until Sherlock swooped in for a harder one, his hands up in John's hair, pulling, guiding, dragging. There was a few seconds until John realized that the thickening in his groin was mere inches from the hardness he felt pressed against him, and before either of them could pull away, apologize, or make some smart aleck remark, the cab pulled up to them, honking.

Silence. All the way to Baker Street. And frustration mounting. 

And now, in the office, John was about to confront it. This had gone on long enough.

******

Some people enter a room like a ninja, stealthily, and discovery is an, oh, you're here. And others, present tall long-coated company, for instance, conquer a room, taking it by storm through energy, charisma, and life itself.

Long legs, folded into chair, pulling off gloves, he sat unbidden, across from John. "Well." John closed the door, softly clicking shut. Sherlock'd been in his office only a handful of times before, never more than a few moments.

Not quite a question then, but John's heart skidded sideways even as he knew it was not possible. Line in the sand. Turning point. Point of no return, perhaps? He sat down behind the desk, little distant, not intimidating. Taking the plunge, then, "There have been some concerns." Deduce that.

No response other than an open gesturing of the hands as if to continue.

"About you." Eye contact, pure and simple, revealing nothing. "Are you ok?"

Uncrossed a leg, sat forward. "Oh just out with it. Clearly we are here and not at home for your comfort, or lack of discomfort. You haven't taken off the jacket, although the stethoscope is off, you're conflicted about your role here, trying to portray clinical detachment perhaps? You're uncomfortable. There are always concerns, but usually you ignore them as the ridiculousness they are. So these concerns are closer to home, namely... Mycroft ... Greg, perhaps both." Smiling then, scarf loosened and removed. "And we're going to have a heart-to-heart about it?" Smile turned devious then, as he'd noticed John swallow harder than usual, but this had to be expected, of course. "So go ahead."

John met his eyes, steadily, wheels turning. Not unexpected, this. Consideration of options, then. No rushing here. He tilted back slightly in the chair, the desk between them. "Did you want to continue? Save me the trouble." A couple of blinks, John saw and was pleased. He was not about to relinquish total control here. Yet. When the silence continued, he couldn't stop the satisfied smirk. Without words was not a bad thing, the balance of power shifting. "You've been frustrated. To the point of being impossible to work with. There's some concern about your mental health. Some concern that you'll step your way into previous habits. Concern your ability to work is impaired."

He leaned forward, "This is all rubbish. Nothing original, you're being swayed. What do you think, John?"

Perfect opening, and John took it, smiling. "I think you've been frustrated since we kissed, waiting for that cab." Ah, the pause and the head tilt, John had that right. But not the silence. He was not uncomfortable waiting, but did however, hear sirens approaching, and rose to the window to look, slowly. Figured he'd hang up his lab coat while he waited. The back of Sherlock's head was rather still, and John felt a rush of tenderness. Decided to test the water. "Quiet much longer, I may check a pulse." At which Sherlock raised a sleeve and held out his wrist. He leaned a hip against his desk, ankles crossed, arms still on the edge of the desk. "So why are you frustrated?"

"I'm not. Bored maybe." His answer was just tentative enough for John to be encouraged.

"I think I'm right. Care to test a hypothesis?"

Blue eyes met his, pierced. Appealing to the scientist was good.

"So we do it again, here. Now. Maybe it was nothing and has nothing to do with your ... irritability. But if it makes you more frustrated, we may need to re-think some boundaries."

"Oh for pity's sake, John. I'm not... driven by that. It's so..." He actually stopped to consider the level of insult he was about to deliver. "Average."

"Yeah, well, us average people tend to kind of enjoy that now and again." He schooled his face to as neutral as he could manage. "What do you have to lose?"

"You aren't going to move out?"

"No one else would keep you. And without me, Mrs. Hudson would certainly be forced to drastic measures." He ran interference between them at least twice a week.

"Fine." 

Lestrades words echoed then, to help Sherlock navigate this. John could certainly step back when needed, but now he was a man of action. Why belabor the point? His hand came to rest somewhere behind Sherlock's ear, fingers sliding into the curls, and he brought gentle lips down against the seated man's mouth. Blue eyes stared back at him, pupils slightly dilated. John felt the hammering of carotid pulse, intentionally. Pounding away, then. John pulled away slightly, heard and felt an inhale and then he felt a hand against the back of his arm, drawing them together again. Lips came together again, stronger, more pressure, and his eyes drifted closed, savoring the sweetness. There was a tentative meeting of tongue, John wasn't sure who started that, but the kiss deepened and he found himself tugging Sherlock to his feet. Bodies, taut, tight, swollen in places, discovering that an embrace changes things. Kissing was hot, and John drew back slightly. Who exactly was the frustrated one here, he wondered.

"You know I've never..." Sherlock started, and John waited, breathless, wanting him to open up about it, knew it was important, "...been with anyone like that."

"It's okay, there's no rush. A first for me too. Gender-wise, I mean." Timid smiles, reassuring, between the two of them. Not once since Sherlock's return had John ever corrected anyone about them being a couple. Of course, the brief marital interlude negated many opportunities, but it still happened. Even when Mary had said it a few weeks ago, John had kept quiet. And of all people, she had more grounds than anyone else to make the observation.

"So no rush, what exactly are you saying?" He rested his chin against John's forehead.

"Exactly that. We do what we want, when we want, whenever you're ready. Not until."

"Does waiting make any sense to you? Why wait?" His hand brushed down the front of John's shirt, skimming buttons and headed for the tight pucker of a nippled pectoral muscle. Reflexively, John arched against his hand, inhaling deeply, enjoying the sensations. "You obviously don't want to wait."

"We do know each other fairly well. Not in every sense."

"Yet."

John sighed as Sherlock's hands reached his belt line. Just as he'd wanted this conversation here at his office not to contaminate the flat with a bad encounter, if it had gone that way, he knew he would never have a sensible consult or meeting in his office again if they stayed much longer and things transpired. "Let's go home?"

******

Barely inside the door, they'd been, when, by mutual decision, they'd come together. Clothing ended up leaving a random trail between the front door and Sherlock's bedroom, a coat here, a sock, shirt, there. Trousers, pants discarded in the hallway. Sherlock's bedsheets were already a tussled mess, and John eased him back down until he was seated, while he tossed the duvet aside. Nervousness escalated, then, slowing things down.

"You sure you want this?" John asked quietly, and when Sherlock didn't meet his eyes, John tipped his head back, forcing that minor issue.

"Of course. It makes sense." 

John squelched the urge to feel slightly offended down, knowing Sherlock's well-defined coping mechanisms, knew there were ways that walls and barriers can come tumbling down. "Me too." Sherlock might not have specifically wanted to hear the consent, but he needed to draw him out of his own head, briefly. Eye contact maintained until John eased him down, supine, warm chest to warm chest.

Dim light from the hallway illuminated the pale flesh of Sherlock's body, and John took a more assertive position, nipping firmly at shoulder, down rib cage, breathing warmly on softly furred hair that led to a hard, swollen shaft. A dip of his mouth, a complete first ever experience. It did not disappoint, and Sherlock's reactions included a sharp intake of breath and an unconscious thrusting toward the ceiling. It was the moan, though, that made his chest ache. Sherlock's fingers behind both arms nudged John back up toward hungry lips. Finally laying side-to side, there was moaning, deep breathing, and hardness trapped between bellies for the few moments it took things to heat up again.

"God, John..."

"I know. It's... good."

Under sensitive hands used to assessing many sensations and discoveries, John felt Sherlock's back tense, felt increase of temperature, the sheen of sweat. "I... I'm going to..."

"I know..." He exhaled loudly, there were muscles tensing, respiratory rate increased, and, of all things probably as unusual as the fact that they were no longer platonic flatmates, there was a simultaneous, crashing, encompassing, intense orgasms.

And, only slightly surprising, Sherlock found that spooning in bed was a delightful position that enhanced his propensity toward sleep.

*******

Sherlock was in the shower when John heard the incoming text tone from Greg. Hmmm. Reading the conversation backward was... rather enlightening.

(this morning) **You're welcome. GL**

(late last night) **Appreciate the help. -SH**

(from last week) **Good luck. Said the same to him. I mean it. GL**

**I told you to, there's a difference. -SH**

**Of course, you asked me to. GL**

**Oh, threatened my livelihood I hope. -SH**

**I talked to John the other day, pretty sure you'll hear from him. GL**

He shook his head. Well played, Sherlock. He wondered if Mycroft was also in on it, and realized of course he was. There was never any power struggle here. Might as well accept it, he started to think, then realized that power was in constant flux, and he was ready to wrestle it back. The shower was still on, and it seemed time for Captain Watson to command some serious shower sex. He left the message trails read and open. No more secrets, he vowed, but some serious consequence for the misdeed. _With pleasure._

Shedding his clothes on the way, he pushed open the door to the loo, smiling at their mutual cleverness. "Hey, hope you're up for some company?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments always appreciated. Sharing these two clueless guys struggle to find fulfillment - double entendres are wonderful, aren't they? - is just so much fun.


End file.
